


Are you a raisin?

by jonnyhustle



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Baker Derek, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2584592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyhustle/pseuds/jonnyhustle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Remember approximately two hours ago when Selene prompted: <br/>"STEREK / BAKERY AU - Broody Baker! Derek Hale just wants to stuff Stiles Stilinski full of .. CAKE" </b>
</p>
<p>'“You don’t understand,” Derek growls, frustrated with how he’s unable to put his thoughts into words, “I just want to feed him–”</p>
<p>“Your dick?” Erica suggests, choosing to ignore that (1) Derek has no sense of humour, and (2) Derek is her boss, “I already know.”'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are you a raisin?

“You don’t understand,” Derek growls, frustrated with how he’s unable to put his thoughts into words, “I just want to feed him–”

“Your dick?” Erica suggests, choosing to ignore that (1) Derek has no sense of humour, and (2) Derek is her boss, “I already know.”

She speaks solemnly, as if Derek’s forcing her to think about his sex life when she’s the one forcing him to think about his sex life. It’s all very twisted. He doesn’t know how this happened.

“What? No!” He corrects, his look of anger being dialled down a bit by the mess of flour that begins on his cheek and ends somewhere at the bottom of his floral apron. Laura’s daughter had picked it out for him. He hadn’t stood a chance in hell.

Their mindless bickering is interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Derek hadn’t even heard the doorbell sound, and if Erica did then she weighed her options and decided it would’ve been better to not let Derek know. That doesn’t leave too many options on who it could be, standing there at the counter, having witnessed the hot mess that was Derek trying to translate his feelings into words.

He kind of wants to die a little. In fact, he might actually be dying. He’s always very stoic, has learnt to be after the sheer amount of times his sisters tried to humiliate him to death. So, he might not show it on the outside, but on the inside he’s embarrassed.

Derek turns slowly. Prays that the floor will open so he can just sink right on down like an expressway to hell. 

“Stiles!” Erica says, the shit-eating grin she shoots Derek making it clear who (or what) a Stiles is. 

Derek doesn’t whimper. He doesn’t. He faces Stiles like a man on death row faces the firing squad.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Stiles says, trying to force eye contact even when Derek avoids looking at him.

“You’re not. Erica is just being inappropriate,” he shoots her a glare, which is only a slightly more intense version of what, according to Erica and Lydia, is his ‘resting bitch face’.

“Erica’s being inappropriate?” Stiles asks, and Derek doesn’t even have to look at that stupid smirk he’s pulling to know that what’s about to come will be just as embarrassing as the start and middle of this entire conversation, “didn’t I just hear you say you wanted to feed someone your dick?”

“No, I don’t think you did,” Derek shakes his head.

He’s calm. He’s bright red, he can feel the flush high on his cheeks, but he’s calm. 

He flinches when Erica reaches out and puts the back of her hand on his skin.

“Boss man, you’re really hot. Are you feeling okay?” 

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, "you look really hot."

He might say it with a leer, but Derek doesn't know, he also might just be projecting.

Derek has to remind himself to stay calm, internally counting to ten. 

He can get through this conversation. He can fire Erica. He can sell the bakery. He can move counties, and maybe even countries. He can never face Stiles again. Those are all viable life plans that can happen as soon as he makes it through the rest of this hell disguised as a conversation.

He can do this.

He is calm. 

“That’s sexual harassment,” Derek says, finally, because he has no fucking idea how to respond when the person he was resolutely _not_ (thank you very much, Erica) sexually harassing accuses him of sexual harassment.

Stiles just nods conspiratorially. Derek hates him. Derek hates his dumb smirk, and his stupid face, and his everything. He might want to feed him pastries just to hear those guttural moans he always casually throws out, but he hates him. 

“Do you just want the usual?” Erica pipes up when it becomes apparent that Stiles and Derek aren’t going to say anything, lest they interrupt those precious few minutes they have to ogle one another. 

Derek points his finger angrily in Erica’s face as a warning. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t trust his mouth in front of Stiles to be anything either than horrifyingly embarrassing or flippantly short, but he thinks it gets the message across. 

Though, that doesn’t explain why the next day Stiles comes up to the counter and says, “I got your message. I mean, I think I did.” 

Derek stares blankly, hoping he didn’t offend Stiles.

Instead of apologising, or trying to explain himself, he settles on, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“It was Erica’s message, but I figured you asked her to like, you know, try and be subtle about it.”

“Be subtle about it? What’s it?”

There’s something that feels a lot like fear settling in Derek’s stomach. 

“Asking me out?” he says, then, a little more unsure, “not that it even really implied romantic intent, so asking me out might be a little bit strong.”

Stiles suddenly looks unsure of himself. He’s usually bouncing on his feet, grinning as he tortures Derek without even knowing he’s doing it. He’s the one customer that Derek doesn’t get mad at when he rubs his hands all over the glass counter, trying to get as close as possible to the pastries. 

Derek nods, “Oh,” the fear lessens. 

While Stiles isn’t quite acting like himself, he isn’t acting as if he’s got the police department on standby for the baker sex fiend either. He figures that if Erica did anything, it couldn’t have been too bad.

“You didn’t know?” 

“No,” Derek says, cursing himself when Stiles’ face falls, “but that doesn't mean I would've stopped her even if I did know. Can I just... what did she say?” 

Stiles blushes at that, and suddenly the fear is back. It might be working out, might, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to fix whatever exactly it was Erica did.

“I decided to pick up some raisin scones for dad because he kept asking why I take a twenty minute detour every day on my way to work. He said no food could be that good,” he flushes at that, doesn’t meet Derek’s eye, “I told him he was wrong. Well, sort of. It wasn’t just the food that made me come back. Anyway, there was a note written on the bag. I didn’t see it until dad pointed it out.” 

Derek nods again, forces himself to say, “What did she write?” 

“Are you a raisin? Cause you’re a raisin' my dick.” 

Derek closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He thinks about how this could pan out, about the flush that graced Stiles’ cheeks when he insinuated that he came back to the bakery for a reason besides the baked goods. Then, he thinks about Erica, thinks about how many years he’ll have to do in jail for a murder charge if he holds onto the anger he’s feeling now. 

He thinks about how that might deter his (potential) relationship with Stiles for a bit longer than any embarrassment could. 

He grimaces pre-emptively, admits, “I probably wouldn’t have worded it like that, but the sentiment rings true. Kind of wish your dad didn’t see it, though.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, obviously not caring too much about his dad finding the note if the ear-splitting grin he’s throwing Derek’s way is anything to go by.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr is here](http://reluctantvillain.tumblr.com).


End file.
